Jane (4 page)

A whole new Mr. Rathburn began to take form in my imagination — less hedonistic, more driven but no less formidable. “Is he angry often?” I asked.

Lucia speared a cherry tomato on the end of her fork, then appeared to inspect it closely. “I don’t mean to make him sound like an ogre,” she said. “He’s just… what’s the word? Exacting. He has certain expectations. But he’s generous; he pays us well, and he’s not unkind. I’ve had lots worse jobs, believe me.” I was able to get her talking about her own past. She regaled me with stories of the many petty and capricious bosses she’d had, the indignities she’d suffered as a salesgirl, a waitress, and a hotel chambermaid. “So after all that, Nico isn’t so hard to work for. Even with all the craziness that goes with the territory — fans somehow getting his number and calling in the middle of the night, the band tromping through here for rehearsals, all the hangers-on. You know what I mean.”

Though of course I didn’t know.

“It’s rarely dull,” she concluded.

I nodded. “And what about Maddy?” I asked. “What’s she like?”

“Maddy?” Lucia clucked her tongue. “She’s been through so much in her five years. That mother of hers.” She made a sour face. “Dragging a baby, a toddler, to nightclubs and afterparties, like a toy poodle in a pocketbook. When we got her, the child was sleeping all day and staying up all night. Like a vampire!”

“How long has she lived here?”

“Going on a year. She’s on a regular schedule now, thankfully. But that’s not the worst of it. When Maddy got a little older and
less easy to control, her mother would leave her alone night after night to fend for herself. Can you imagine that? A child that young left by herself?”

“That’s terrible,” I said. “Poor thing.”

“When Nico brought her here, it was all we could do to get her to trust any of us. She wouldn’t say a word for the longest time, wouldn’t let any of us touch her, except Nico of course, but he’s away so much.”

“But now she feels more at home here?” I asked.

Lucia bent to adjust the dishwasher’s controls. “Bridget — her last nanny — drew her out of her shell and helped her to learn English. Now she speaks it all the time. Can you imagine being four years old and coming to live with a father you barely know in a place where nobody speaks your language? It took months, but Bridget helped Maddy become, I don’t know, more like a normal child. She’s an affectionate, funny kid. She can talk your ear off.”

“She must miss Bridget.” Maddy would have to get used to me, a whole new person in her life. I suspected the transition wouldn’t be easy.

“Maddy cried every night for a week,” Lucia said. “She still asks about her. I’ve been minding her as best I can, but there’s so much to take care of around here. I’ve only been able to watch Maddy with half an eye. I’m so glad you’re here now.”

I nodded. It sounded as though Maddy was in real need of consistency and love. It would be my job to give her those things. She would need to feel like the center of someone’s world, even if that someone was hired help. I knew what it felt like to be on the
periphery, to feel unsafe and uncertain. But then a question occurred to me. “Why did Bridget leave?”

Something changed in Lucia’s voice. “Personal reasons.” She wiped her hands on a dishcloth. “Now I’ll show you the rest of the house.”

Lucia walked me through the house, pointing out objects of interest — a room with a Steinway and a row of guitars where Nico Rathburn did his songwriting; a workout room full of weight machines; a hallway decorated with about forty gold and platinum records; Madeline’s room, done up in every imaginable shade of pink. When the tour ended, I still doubted I’d be able to find my way from one end of the building to the other. Though the decor looked expensive, the place was less flashy than I’d expected and full of cozy spots, including, to my surprise, a well-stocked library with shelves so high a ladder was needed to reach them.
What kind of books would a rock star read?
I wondered.

“Nico won’t mind if you borrow his books, as long as you return them,” Lucia said, as if reading my mind.

“Am I allowed to use any of these rooms?”

She turned to shut the library door behind us. “For the most part. Except for the third floor. It’s completely off-limits to most of the staff.” She led me back toward her office, a comfortable den with a desk and a sofa, where we sat down.

I nodded. “What’s on the third floor?”

“I suppose… well, nothing. It’s just there.” A crease appeared between Lucia’s brows. “It’s dangerous. The floorboards are old and rotting. You could fall through.” This struck me as strange. Why wouldn’t a multimillionaire have his floorboards repaired? But something in Lucia’s voice told me not to inquire further. I promised to avoid the third floor.

Lucia then proceeded to lay out my duties, hour by hour. I took notes, writing as quickly as I could for fear of missing a crucial detail. Maddy’s days sounded like a blur of preschool, ballet lessons, and trips to the aquarium or zoo — a schedule that would be exhausting for any grown-up, and all the more so for a small child. I was reviewing my notes when the doorbell rang. I followed Lucia to the front door, and a little girl swept in, her T-shirt, jeans, backpack, and sneakers all in pink. “Come and meet someone,” Lucia urged her, taking her by the hand. “Did you have fun at Cassandra’s house?”

“We made play-dough out of flour and water and food coloring,” the girl said. “See, my fingers are purple.”

Lucia maneuvered Maddy in front of me, and I crouched down to be at eye level with her. “This is Miss Jane,” Lucia said in a kindly voice. “She’s going to live with us and help Daddy take care of you.”

Maddy’s blond pigtails stood high on her head; her T-shirt read, in letters made of glitter,
PRINCESS.
“Hello,” she said, looking down at the carpet.

“Hello,” I said back. “I’m happy to meet you. Those are the purplest fingers I’ve ever seen.”

Maddy’s shoulders rose to meet her ears. “Can I go to my room now?”

“You’ll be having dinner soon,” Lucia said. “Macaroni and cheese.”

Maddy nodded absently, her gaze still fixed on the floor.

“You can go play now,” Lucia told her. “Miss Jane will go with you. You can show her your figurine collection.”

“I don’t want to,” Maddy said.

“Show her your stuffed animals, then. Or your fish.”

Maddy ran off toward her room. I followed at a distance, down the hall and up the stairs, and knocked on the door she slammed shut behind her.

“It’s Miss Jane,” I said through the door. “You don’t have to show me your things or even talk to me, but it would be nice if you let me in.”

The door opened a crack. “I like Miss Bridget. I don’t like you.” But she stepped aside to let me in.

“You don’t know me very well yet. Maybe you’ll like me when you know me better.” I sat down in a pink, child-sized armchair. “You don’t need to talk to me if you don’t want to.”

I watched as she pulled a box of Disney figurines out from under her bed and began arranging them on the carpet. “You go
here,” she said to Pluto, putting him beside the Little Mermaid. She hummed softly as she sorted the figures out.

Ten minutes went by before she said another word to me. “Are you going to take me places?” She kept her eyes on her playthings. “To FAO Schwarz?”

“If you want me to,” I answered. “We don’t have to.”

“Miss Bridget was going to take me to FAO Schwarz.” Maddy looked up at me. Her eyes were deep-set and brown, fringed with long lashes. “She promised.”

“I never make promises I can’t keep.”

She crawled nearer to me, a figurine in both hands. She held one up an inch from my nose. “This is Beauty from
Beauty and the Beast.
”

“I recognize her,” I said. “Is she your favorite?”

“I like all the princesses.” She crawled back to her collection. “My mom is prettier than you.”

“That’s okay,” I said. It was true; I’d seen pictures. “Pretty isn’t everything.”

Maddy raised an eyebrow, a neat trick for a five-year-old. “Miss Bridget’s prettier too,” she told me. “I heard Miss Lucia talking on the phone. She said Miss Bridget was fired because she went up to the third floor, but I think she was scared. Of Miss Brenda.”

“I don’t know Miss Brenda.”

“She lives on the third floor. I think she’s scary too.” She set Goofy down next to Eeyore. “Miss Brenda doesn’t play with me ever.”

“Maybe she’s busy.”

Maddy nodded. “I could paint your fingernails” — she held out a hand — “like mine, see?”

“Pink? I’d like that. But not before dinner.”

Maddy warmed to me slowly over the course of our first few weeks together, as our days started to pick up a rhythm. Getting her up and dressed in the morning was always a struggle. “Why can’t I stay home and watch TV?” she asked from the luxurious depths of her bed that first morning. “When I’m at school, I miss my toys. I have better toys here.”

“You’ll be back with your toys this afternoon. Now get up, and I’ll let you pick out your clothes.”

“I want to wear my pajamas all day.”

“Well, maybe on a Saturday. Not on a Tuesday.”

“Why can’t I?” When I didn’t reply, Maddy made a face. “My throat hurts. I think I have a fever.”

I pressed my palm to her forehead. “You’re as cool as a cucumber.”

“Why do I have to go to school? If Daddy was here, he’d let me stay home. Daddy lets me do whatever I want.”

“Daddy’s not here, though. He left me in charge. And you need to go to school. Now get up.” I clapped my hands smartly. “Quick, like a bunny.” The bunny thing had worked on other kids I’d sat for, but Maddy was a tough customer, apparently used to getting her own way in just about everything; it took work to get her dressed, fed, and out the door that morning. But each day she got up and dressed a little faster.

I didn’t much like dropping her off at the Waldorf School, either. It seemed to me the mothers and other nannies looked me up and down, curious about the newest addition to the household of the town’s most famous resident. Their narrowed eyes told me they didn’t find me half glamorous enough, and though the mothers would chat happily with each other, not a single one of them ever said as much as hello to me those first weeks. But I was relieved not to have to make small talk. Besides, once I’d said good-bye to Maddy, I was free for the morning. In Mr. Rathburn’s red Mini Cooper — the least luxurious car in his fleet — I would drive to Long Island Sound. I would skip stones in the cold steel-gray water, and paint watercolor after watercolor, trying to capture the changing moods of water and light.

By the end of our second week, Maddy took to chattering for the whole car ride home, telling me about whatever she and her friend Cassandra had done together that morning. At home, she and I would eat lunch in companionable silence, all her chatter gone. Then, while Maddy spent quiet time in her room, I would lie down in mine, headphones on, acquainting myself with the music of Nico Rathburn. This particular project hadn’t been my idea. When I happened to mention to Lucia that the only Nico Rathburn album I’d ever heard was his third one, she had reacted with undisguised shock.

“You can’t be serious.” She’d disappeared and returned with a CD player in one hand and a stack of CDs in the other. “You need to listen to every single one of these.”

I felt myself blush. “I’m sorry to be so unprepared,” I said.

“Unprepared?” She let out a peal of laughter. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh. Knowing Nico’s music isn’t part of your job descrip
tion. There isn’t going to be a quiz.” She thrust the CDs into my arms. “You need to listen to these albums for
you.
” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “Nico’s music will change your life.”

So while Maddy rested, I listened to Nico Rathburn’s first album, then his second. Headphones on, I read the liner notes and looked at the pictures: the Rathburn Band lined up against a brick wall, all looking surly, and the man himself on a city street, hands deep in his pockets, posed before a security-grated storefront. At first, I wasn’t impressed with the music, much less transformed by it. I’d never liked rock music much; the vocals often struck me as abrasive, more yelling than singing, and more about attitude than talent. The first album was made up of simple three-chord pop songs, with an occasional romantic ballad thrown in. The second was more musically and lyrically complex. I remembered from my research that a critic had called the second album “Dylanesque in its wild inventiveness,” but to my ear the lyrics were undisciplined, full of free association and cryptic personal statements.

It took me a few days to make it to Nico Rathburn’s third album, the one that had catapulted him to fame. Before I pushed Play, I studied the cover: the upper half of Nico Rathburn’s famous face, a lock of hair falling across his forehead, his dark gaze daring the viewer to look away. Though I’d heard Lucia praise Nico’s generosity and decency, this photograph broadcast arrogance. Still, I expected to like this album better than the first two because I’d heard it wafting from my brother’s bedroom so many times. But when the first track began, I felt the muscles in my face tense. I didn’t have to read the lyrics; it turned out that I knew them by heart.

Mark had loved this album, had played one song in particular — the megahit “Wrong Way Down a One-Way Street” — over and over. Our rooms were side by side; some nights I hadn’t been able to sleep because his music was so loud. If I had knocked on his door and asked him to turn it down, he would have ignored me, or worse. I was the youngest; Mark had been six when I was born, and Jenna five. They knew how to pick at me until I fell apart, crying till I was as limp as a rag doll. Even worse, when Mark was in one of his terrible moods, he would hit me. He didn’t need a reason. And if I ran to my mother to ask for protection, she would say, “I’ve never known such a crybaby.” My father could be counted on to protect me, but he worked long hours and Saturdays; it felt like he was almost never home.

One time, when Mark had teased me to tears, I’d made the mistake of telling my dad about it when he got home from work. That night, my father took a belt to Mark. I was seven; Mark was thirteen and not much shorter than Dad. I could hear him yelping from his bedroom. He emerged from his spanking red-faced and surly, looking more embarrassed than hurt. He’d waited a day and a half until both Mom and Dad were out of the house to take his revenge. I was in my room, minding my own business, when he knocked on the door.